Darcy's Redemption

by M. A. Sandiford

  ‘I’m not asking you for help with the fare, and I understand Lydia has always been an embarrassment. But could I not make a contribution by writing again? Not the humorous pieces, just reviews, of serious books.’

  His expression darkened. ‘I had hoped this matter was resolved, Elizabeth. You agreed to end your inappropriate role at the magazine. In any case, the money you earn belongs to me, so in effect I would be paying for your sister’s voyage, not you.’

  ‘The trouble is that the burden will fall on my uncle, who will feel obligated to cover the full amount, and also to look after Lydia and her son when they arrive.’

  ‘Then dissuade him. Your sister chose vice over virtue. Such choices have consequences. Explain this to Mr Gardiner. Let your sister stay where she can inflict no more ruination on your family. I assume, of course, that if by some mischance she returned to these shores, you would have nothing to do with her.’

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘Believe me, Fredo, I am sufficiently aware of the harm caused by Lydia’s thoughtlessness. But are we not enjoined to show charity? I will quote this wrongly, but is there not more joy in heaven over one sinner that repents, than over ninety-nine souls that remain sinless?’

  There was a sudden tension, and with fists clenched he said, ‘You will please me, dear, by not presuming to bring the Holy Gospels into this discussion.’

  ‘Surely that is what they are for? To guide us through moral perplexity?’

  ‘We may hope that your sister repents. But she can do so equally well in Australia.’

  ‘The passage covers that too. The lost sheep is welcomed home with joy, not left to its fate.’

  Fredo rose and began to pace up and down the carpet. ‘You are misinterpreting the verse.’

  Exasperated, Elizabeth stood to face him. ‘Then how should it be interpreted?’

  ‘By men with the education and intellectual capacity to comprehend the word of God. Not an ignorant woman whose judgement is clouded by emotion.’

  He spoke through clenched teeth, straining not to raise his voice. But Elizabeth had had enough, and said witheringly, ‘Then perhaps you can demonstrate your erudition by stating the correct interpretation.’

  Fredo floundered, interrupting himself repeatedly as he sought a reading that would disqualify Lydia from the status of lost sheep. Eventually he threw up his hands and said, ‘You are not equipped to understand such matters, so I am wasting my breath.’

  ‘And yet I am equipped to re-express your convoluted tracts so lucidly that they are accepted by your publisher.’ Elizabeth lost control, and her voice dripped with scorn. ‘You are a fraud, Fredo. You have no originality of mind. You re-arrange ideas copied from other writers, in such a distorted form that they are almost unrecognisable …’

  She stopped, alarmed by a violence in his features that she had never witnessed before. He stepped forward, his arm raised to strike her, but a demon in her refused to retreat. Let him hit her, and suffer the remorse.

  But he could not do it. He froze, his gesture reduced to absurdity, and retreated red-faced.

  ‘Leave my house!’ As if to account for his raised hand, Sibley redirected it to point to the hallway. ‘Immediately. When you have regained a semblance of rationality, you will admit fault, apologise, and sign an agreement in regard to your future conduct. Until this is done you will have no access to the children. Am I clear?’

  Elizabeth was too disgusted to plead. She walked past him to the hall, where a startled Harriet helped her pack.

  8

  The hackney turned off Regent Street, towards Mayfair. It was a cool, damp evening. Elizabeth opened a window so that rain sprayed fresh against her face.

  She had felt more angry than distressed on setting out. But during the labyrinthine journey across London she recognised that anger had its price. To express her true opinion of Fredo had brought a surge of affirmation. But there were consequences.

  For years she had compromised for the sake of the children. Helped Fredo, put up with his family. Now she had thrown away all this effort with a single outburst, and could see no way of repairing the damage. The words had been said. Fredo knew she despised him. He would never view her in the same way again.

  The hackney reached Mountjoy House. Elizabeth paid, took her bag, and climbed the familiar steps. A footman answered. The Earl of Ballytore was away, at his cousin’s estate. Countess Julia too, and most of the servants.

  Elizabeth withdrew to the street. The hackney had left. It was late, and the rain had intensified. Residents passed, regarding her with curiosity. She should return to a main road and find a driver willing to take her to Gracechurch Street.

  Rain was pouring down now, splattering the cobbles. The area was residential: there was no inn or tavern where she could shelter. Elizabeth hurried to the end of the road and turned into Grosvenor Street, with Hyde Park on her right.

  She recalled Darcy’s final words, at Euston Station. ‘If you ever need help, you will find me during the season at Darcy House in …’

  Grosvenor Street.

  She inquired of a passer-by, who pointed her at a terraced house just fifty paces away.

  Perhaps Darcy was merely being polite. He might be at Pemberley. It was an absurd hour to call …

  She rang the bell.

  A young liveried footman studied her. ‘Ma’am?’

  Elizabeth could well understand his perplexity at seeing a bedraggled lady on the hallowed doorstep at such an hour. But explanation must wait. She asked simply, ‘Is Mr Darcy in residence?’

  ‘Which name should I give?’

  ‘Mrs Sibley. May I step inside?’

  He hesitated, evidently wary of leaving her alone in the hallway. Along the passage a woman came into view.

  ‘Visitors, Simpson?’

  ‘A Mrs Sibley, ma’am, asking for the master.’

  The woman emerged from dim light, an elegant lady in her late thirties with a relaxed confident manner.

  ‘Good evening.’ She stepped forward and gasped. ‘Do come in. You will be soaked! Let me help with your bag.’

  The footman retreated, keeping an eye on Elizabeth as his mistress shut the door.

  ‘I’m afraid my brother is out. My name is Molyneux, by the way. Georgiana.’

  ‘Elizabeth Sibley. Formerly Bennet. I once knew …’

  ‘Elizabeth!’ Mrs Molyneux’s face lit up. ‘What a delight to meet you at last! William has spoken so warmly of you. Please come through and let us get you dry. William is at the theatre, but should be back within the hour.’

  Dazed, almost weeping with relief, Elizabeth submitted like a child to Georgiana’s ministrations. Her wet coat and hat were hung by the fire. Silk slippers were offered. A maid was called to assist.

  ‘Have you a spare dress?’ Georgiana asked.

  Elizabeth opened her carpet bag, but the dress, packed in a hurry, was crumpled and damp.

  ‘You can borrow one of Anne’s.’

  They went to a first floor chamber usually reserved for Georgiana’s daughter, at present visiting the London residence of Sir Humphrey and Lady Molyneux. A dress was provided, and a fresh petticoat.

  ‘You have sons too?’ Elizabeth prompted.

  ‘Edmund and Matthew. Also away at Molyneux Place, which grants us a rest from their incessant quarrelling. We should have christened them Cane and Abel. My husband Philip is in the study working on some incomprehensible scientific monograph.’ She smiled. ‘He can concentrate better when the boys are away.’

  They descended to the drawing room, where a jug of cocoa was served.

  ‘You will be wondering why I am here,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Port in a storm?’ Georgiana suggested.

  Elizabeth explained that she had found the Mountjoys away from their London home. ‘Once my clothes are dry I will leave for my uncle’s house.’

  Georgiana looked puzzled. ‘How far?’

  ‘Cheapside.’

  ‘You said you lived in Carter Lane.�
�

  Elizabeth swallowed. ‘I’m sorry to burden you with my troubles, but I have had to leave my family suddenly after a quarrel.’

  ‘Then spend the night here, in Anne’s room. I insist.’

  ‘Your brother …’

  ‘Will also insist.’ Georgiana leaned forward. ‘Forgive me, dear Mrs Sibley, but I cannot help seeing that you are distressed. It is not my business to enquire into your private life, but if you need friends, you have them here.’

  This kindness was too much for Elizabeth, who had to struggle to avoid breaking down.

  ‘You are uncommonly generous, considering that I am virtually a stranger.’

  ‘I’m not so sure of that, Mrs Sibley.’ Georgiana smiled mischievously. ‘Or should I say, EB?’

  Elizabeth gasped. ‘You read The Lady’s Magazine?’

  ‘Your pieces especially. They are so amusing! But what has happened these last months? No more EB! We are desolate.’

  Elizabeth trembled with alarm that her authorship appeared to be generally known. Had Fredo been right after all?

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Did you not tell William that you had written reviews? Obviously we thought of The Lady’s Magazine, because it is so popular. Then we found your made-up letter from a lady who lives near a churchyard and is worried about the possibility of ghosts. She asks for reassurance that they do not exist, and wonders whether the matter should be debated in Parliament.’

  ‘One of my silliest.’

  ‘It was hilarious! William thought it sounded just like you, and in any case the initials gave the game away.’

  Elizabeth relaxed, anxiety yielding to a glow of pleasure that some people, at least, enjoyed her efforts. ‘I beg you, Mrs Molyneux, tell nobody else of this.’

  ‘I promise. And please call me Georgiana.’

  ‘Then you can dispense with Mrs Sibley as well. It is a name I would prefer to forget, for the moment.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Georgiana hesitated, as if wondering whether to pursue this. ‘You are not, I hope, anxious over your children.’

  ‘My husband always treats them well. He will say I’m visiting friends.’ She grimaced. ‘It has happened before. They will understand.’

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Georgiana jumped to her feet. ‘That will be William. Shall we surprise him?’

  She had been left tête-à-tête with the master of the house, while Georgiana rejoined her husband. Elizabeth returned to the settee, her scalp tingling with an eerie unreality as Darcy sat just an arm’s length away in a wingback chair.

  He looked well, she thought, even more distinguished as his hair greyed, and vigorous for a fifty-year-old. At the same time, he had lost the air of condescension that she had once found off-putting. Perhaps disappointment had softened him. Still dignified, but no longer the disdainful peacock. Out of mourning now, he wore a crimson waistcoat with a silk finish, and pale breeches. But he was no dandy: the frock coat was unpadded, the waist natural, not nipped by a corset.

  There was no point in concealment: her arrival out of the blue had to be explained. From the workings of Darcy’s face she saw how vehemently he despised Fredo, but he did not over-react. He understood, no doubt, that she had to bear with Fredo as a permanent fixture in her life.

  ‘What will you do?’ he asked.

  ‘Go to my uncle’s house in Cheapside, and wait.’

  ‘Until your husband calms down and makes some kind of offer?’

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘As usual, the only route back will be through humiliation.’

  ‘Why not stay here for a few days? Anne’s room is free until the weekend, when she returns with the boys.’

  ‘Mr Darcy, I could not possibly …’

  ‘Think it over.’ He picked up the jug. ‘Would you like more cocoa? Or a stronger potation?’

  She smiled. ‘What have you in mind?’

  ‘Brandy would warm us, on such a dank evening.’

  ‘Then let it be brandy. I need something to put me in a better frame of mind.’

  ‘It does make life’s troubles recede, I find.’

  Darcy returned with two round glasses swirling with deep golden liquor. Elizabeth felt the glow spread to her limbs. What kind people! What a delightful household! She was tempted to take up Darcy’s offer, but the sheer pleasure of living here would be bittersweet. It would underline her own folly, so many years ago.

  ‘Better?’ he asked.

  She smiled warmly. ‘Much.’

  ‘A little more?’

  ‘A drop.’

  He refilled her glass to the same level as before. ‘It will sort itself out, Eliz … I mean, Mrs Sibley.’

  ‘Use my first name if you wish.’

  ‘Elizabeth then. I was going to say that this situation is not new. You have quarrelled before and been reconciled. In all probability history will repeat itself.’

  She shook her head. ‘In my anger, I made the disastrous error of telling my husband what I thought of him, in the most outspoken language.’

  Darcy raised his eyebrows. ‘I cannot believe you would do any such thing.’

  ‘But I assure you …’ Elizabeth caught his meaning and burst out laughing. ‘Oh dear, how slow I am tonight. Yes! It was just like that.’

  ‘Your arrogance,’ he quoted. ‘Your conceit …’

  She raised both hands. ‘Stop it!’

  ‘Your selfish disdain of the feelings of others …’

  ‘Be silent, you horrible man. Did you not remark on my incivility? And what of my appearance? Tolerable!’

  ‘You were not meant to hear that.’

  ‘Is that supposed to be a defence? The rest I may forgive one day. But tolerable? Never!’

  He joined in her laughter. It felt curious that words that once gave pain should now occasion only merriment. The brandy no doubt played its part.

  Eventually he said, ‘Then like you I appeal to St Luke. If a man sins against you even seven times a day, you are to forgive him provided he repenteth.’

  Still laughing, she said, ‘You hath not repented.’

  ‘I do so now.’

  ‘After 25 years? I require more contrition than that.’

  Darcy nodded, more seriously. ‘Leaving aside this particular case, I share your misgivings. It has never been in my nature to forgive easily. Take Wickham, from whose villainy we have both suffered. Should his slate be wiped clean merely because he mouths a few words of regret?’

  ‘I assume the penitence would have to be sincere.’

  ‘Even so, I would require more. Some kind of recompense, which in Wickham’s case he would be in no position to provide. He may be dead, for all I know.’

  ‘What of Lydia? Do you think I view her too indulgently, as my husband claims? Because she is my sister?’

  ‘No.’ Darcy sipped brandy reflectively. ‘To be honest, I never thought Miss Lydia a sensible young lady. But evil, absolutely not. Nor did she do much harm, by relieving two foolish men of a few coins. She has been justly punished, and served her term.’ He looked up, as if an idea had occurred to him. ‘How long do her letters take to reach you?’

  ‘Three months at best.’

  ‘I still hold myself partly responsible for her misfortune. Had I informed your father of Wickham’s vicious character, the debacle could have been avoided.’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘As you must realise, that is absurd. You warned me repeatedly in Hertfordshire, before providing a full explanation in your letter. I should have told my father immediately I returned from Kent.’

  ‘Let us share the blame, if you insist. But I beg you, allow me to help. The sum required is a minimal price for easing my self-reproach. With your permission I will arrange for a note to be dispatched immediately, sufficient for a first-class cabin. Do you have the address?’

  Elizabeth gasped. Darcy’s assistance would transform Lydia’s prospects, allowing her to return in comfort. But she felt obliged to protest.

  �
�This is too much to ask of you, Mr Darcy.’

  ‘I thought we were using first names.’

  ‘All right! William. Your offer is generosity itself. But I feel so guilty.’

  ‘I ask it as a favour, Elizabeth.’

  She sighed. ‘Then I accept gratefully. As to address, we send letters to the post office at the Rocks, Sydney, since Lydia is always on the move.’

  ‘Excellent. I will make arrangements tomorrow.’

  Elizabeth leaned back, relaxing at this sudden injection of hope. But the consequences of Lydia’s return remained a nagging doubt. ‘This is not going to please Fredo.’

  ‘Must you tell him?’

  ‘I shall certainly not mention your role.’

  ‘Then wait. If he raises the matter, tell him the benefactor is an acquaintance who prefers to remain anonymous. He will probably think it is the Earl of Ballytore.’

  Elizabeth nodded, swayed by Darcy’s confidence. But her husband had sources of information unknown to her. Deceiving him, she would never feel entirely safe.

  9

  Elizabeth awoke to sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains. The room was warm from a fire lit on the previous evening. A maid had brought hot water and hung up the clothes drenched in the rain.

  Elizabeth washed, and put on a morning dress. Opening a curtain she found she was at the back of the house, overlooking the mews. On the wall she noticed a watercolour sketch of a young woman who resembled Georgiana. On a caption at the bottom the artist had pencilled the name Anne, initials PM, and the date 1837. The work of Philip Molyneux, presumably. Another portrait hung in a shady corner; looking more closely she was amazed at its authenticity. Some kind of ink on thick paper, but the detail must have consumed days of laborious work.

  A maid entered carrying a pair of silk slippers in Elizabeth’s exact size, and matter-of-factly outlined the morning routine as she pinned her hair. The master had gone for his early-morning ride. Mrs Molyneux was downstairs in the music room. Breakfast would be served in an hour.

  As Elizabeth descended, faint sounds from the music room became intelligible. A complex piece was being taken apart into its elements, first the right hand, then the left, with bars repeated again and again. The tone of the pianoforte was full and round, allowing rich harmonies to build up through the sustaining pedal. It made her own instrument seem tinny by comparison. The piece was replayed, this time with both hands, and Elizabeth listened outside the door, mesmerised. Such sweep and passion: it transformed the atmosphere of the house.